


I saw a wolf covered in blood

by Cras



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst, Derek Has Feelings, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Slow Build, Stiles Has Nightmares, and deals with them the way he can, eventually, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cras/pseuds/Cras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows that's a bad idea to get involved with witches. Dead or alive, doesn't matter. It's trivial, but Stiles still fucks up just royally (like he has ever done it another way).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The killing is messy. Sadly and disgustingly, but this is the first thing Stiles learns about the process of taking another living being's life by force. And it's not that easy at all, no matter how facile and not-so-challenging it seems to everybody in those crappy TV shows. Stiles is not sure anymore whether he will be able to watch them again without making out-of-place remarks (like he has any others) about the choice of weapon, method of killing, and victim's resistance to die. Because they resist a lot, quite vigorously and loudly and long, and they don't go blissfully quiet after just one minute of fighting, while the main character is trying to catch breath, inquiring if everybody else is alright. Stiles thinks that, at least, this bitch of a witch will no longer terrorize his town and his friends, but this thought is not reassuring enough - not when he is still covered with her blood, and his ears are still ringing with her curses. He hopes though, that the curses were mainly for intimidating and not for real. Witches can't just throw spells at you without making some special magic, well, stuff, like drawing a pentagram on the floor, or waving magic wands before exclaiming an abracadabra in Latin, right? Stiles checks the floor for a pentagram and the body for a wand, and finds nothing. Good, definitely good. But next time he'd better check it in advance.

Just the mere possibility - probability - of the next time makes his stomach muscles clench, and he quickly bends over before he throws up on himself. Not that it would make much difference for his overall looks right now.

Now he has to call Derek, because this is the pattern they both have gradually settled for: one screws things up, the other amends these things if there's such a chance. This time is going to be one hell of a surprise for Derek. Which will last for no more than a second, apparently, before disappearing into the mire of barely contented anger and explicitly expressed sulking over the matter.

'Hey, Derek, remember that witch being all over us for last several weeks? The one who broke Erica's limbs and put an anti-healing spell on her? Well. You know. I was smart enough to track her down, but not smart enough to share her and, consequently, my whereabouts with the pack. Figured I could deal with it without having to disturb you. Hoped we would end up chatting 'bout the weather and your mighty eyebrows and how upset they got because of her actions. So she would realize what a terrible mistake she had done, pack up her ass, and get the fuck out of town. Just a usual plan, well-thought and well-conducted. Who could predict that that cunning piece of a witch would attack me? And here I am, with a bloody bat _in_ my hands and a dead witch _on_ my hands, so, er, could you come and help? _Please?_ '

Stiles wonders if werewolves have ever died of sudden heart attacks.

Stiles wonders how many ways of killing a human teenager there are if you an alpha wolf. Maybe, Derek would end up writing a handbook?

He doesn't want to check anything out of it. Stiles just stands there, steading his breath and his vision. His hands are slippery, and he wipes them on his jeans. Still he has nothing else to do but fish a cell phone out of his pocket and dial up Derek's number. He will even try not to babble. Well, first ten seconds. 'Cuz the effect of adrenalin hasn't started wearing off yet, and Stiles is on the verge of freaking out. He's been with the pack for several years already, and yes, he has had a good share of dead bodies lying in the undesirable vicinity of him these past years from time to time, thank you very much. It's that he's never been the reason of them lying there. A solo reason. He knows he has to look at the situation from a different angle, find something to laugh at - ‘yes, everything is fucked up, but it could be worse, right?’ - well, at least to chuckle at, to make his nerves shut up. He doesn't do that, because laughing over the dead enemy would seem pretty maniacal in the first place, and hysterical in the second.

Stiles is alive, in one piece, and he is not having a panic attack, at least not a proper one. He believes he's been doing great so far.

When he hears abrupt 'What?' on the other end of the line, he does his best not to fall apart.

'Derek could you come there's me and that witch and I think I have to explain some things but don't get angry and don't kill me please I-'

'Stiles? Are you OK? Where are you?'

'Oh my god, you are asking about my well-being so you'll totally go in for a kill. Think about my father, alone in the world full of hambur-'

'Stiles.'

Stiles pictures Derek furrowing his eyebrows, the jaw clenched tightly, the gaze sharpened. Such a familiar, heart-warming image. Like a 'welcome home' sign, smashed right into your face. Stiles draws a breath and, while making his way through the description of the place where he currently is and how Derek can get there, stumbles outside. It's dark already, the sun having set down at least an hour ago. Stiles fills his lungs with fresh air. It smells of wood and rain and earth, and it’s so good. The aftermath of the shock is still here, lingering like a taste of blood on his tongue and making him dizzy, but the fit of almost-panic is almost over. He knows how it works. He in not unfamiliar with death and coping with it on his own, after all. He’s a big boy.

Stiles is still holding the phone, but Derek is suspiciously silent. Maybe, googling a synonym for an 'incredibly stupid and infuriating dickhead'. Most probably, the photo of Stiles will pop up right in the article, along with his address, short biography, and a list of all the epic fails he had the luck to experience and share with the world during his lifetime. It will be a long article, indeed.

'Stiles, we're on our way. Are you sure she is dead?'

'Sorry, dude, verification denied. Not gonna come back. But I'm pretty sure she is.'

'Go to the road and wait for us.'

'Roger that, cap'n.'

Stiles hears a puff against his ear. Not an angry, werewolf-y one, just a human. He's not sure whether he was meant to hear it, and he doesn't say anything back. Anyway, there will be a plenty of words and shouting and maybe even growling later, about Stiles being careless and reckless and other less-things about him. The pack will go up to eleven. There will be bites.

Derek doesn't hang up, and Stiles doesn't do that, either. He needs to focus on something to keep himself from twitching. Automatically he struggles to make out the sound of Derek's breathing, slow and steady, through the background noise of the car, like he did before during times like these, when they would drive home, worn-out, wrecked, but alive. The times, when being completely, alarmingly alone is not an option. The thing he would never confess even to Scott.

They find him sitting by the road, pressing the phone to the left ear with the shoulder. Isaak and Boyd immediately head for the witch's house without a single word. Only when Derek stops in front of him, Stiles puts the mobile away.

Stiles can't say that Derek has taken a shine to him immediately. Damn, 'Derek' and 'shine' sound so wrong standing together in one sentence. 'Take a gloom' would be more appropriate, keeping in mind Derek's preferences concerning violating people's privacy and damaging their mental health in general. A lot of looming in the dark is involved. Just, a lot. But wouldn't it have the opposite meaning? Whatever. The point is, Stiles has worked really hard to earn Derek's trust, or the thing closest to it which Derek has reserved for other people. Ordinary, non-werewolfy people.

Each time Derek wolfs out at him (and not each time is justified, Stiles must add), he assures himself that this is just Derek's way of telling 'You are part of my pack, and only I have the right to rip your throat out with my teeth, so stay away from danger and be careful'. Though more often it simply looks like 'Piss off, you stupid bag of flailing bones'.

The only reason explaining the fact that Derek didn't take Scott with them now is that he really likes Stiles. Somewhere deep, but still it counts, right? Stiles certainly wouldn't be able to bear Scott's 'angry and concerned puppy' mode at the moment.

Or he has a day-off, being tired of dealing with two kids who are engaged in a sort of the who-is-in-more-trouble-this-time competition.

Derek takes Stiles home. He tosses a ragged blanket over the front seat, and Stiles considers it an invitation enough, wrapping it around himself. The silence between them is not uncomfortable; it stopped being such some time ago.

Now it’s mostly just… charged. Like the theater, when everything is dark, the orchestra is silent, and spectators are settling in their seats, focusing, looking at the stage, waiting for the curtain to be lifted. His Mom took him to the theater two times before she understood that it was rather a bad idea: the second time he ran to the stage in the middle of the performance, shouting that all this chocolate in Willy Wonka’s factory couldn’t be real, it would melt, it’s _physics!_ Sitting quietly was a torture, but he remembers clearly that moment, when the play was over, and everybody stood up, raising in one united swift movement, and everything exploded with the sound: applauding, cheering, laughing, and whistling. It felt electric. To calm him down this evening, Mom had to promise him that she would buy the book about Charlie if he behaved. And a children’s textbook on physics. He wouldn’t shut up the whole evening still, sending his father into exaggerated moaning and his mother into stifled giggles; but the next day, when he went to bed, he found two books tucked under the pillow. The dog-eared copies are still in his bedroom, stashed between his shelved school-reading.

Stiles opens his mouth several times, but does his best to keep silent, feeling achingly that it’s not _the right moment_ , his common sense kicking in, and instead turns away to the side window, looking at the changing scenery. He notices Derek throwing glances at him now and then, his eyebrows pinched and mouth set hard. But his breathing doesn’t alter, doesn’t hitch even for a second, being deep and smooth, and suddenly the wave of sheer gratitude washes over Stiles, so strong that he opens his mouth, when he realizes that they’re already stopping on the driveway of the Stilinskis’ house.

‘So-o-o…’

Derek slowly unclenches his fingers gripping the steering wheel, thus changing the mood in the car in an instant, and Stiles braces himself for he doesn’t know what. It’s not that he forgot that Derek is the alpha (the dude rubs it in everybody’s face every time he has the chance), and at this particular moment, the alpha-who-was-left-behind-without-his-knowledge, it’s just that…

‘What? I’m pretty sure I didn’t stained the insides of your beautiful car, I’ve been a good lil’ burrito,’ he blurts out, and Derek actually snorts at that, his shoulders slumping a bit. He inclines his head.

‘You fall out of the car on your own, or should I help you?’

Stiles takes it as his cue and energetically crawls out of the Camaro, suddenly aware of every sore muscle in his body. He hesitates for a moment and leaves the blanket in the car. Derek drives away the very second Stiles turns on the lights in his room. To pick up Isaak and Boyd and... stuff, Stiles guesses. He doesn't want to think about tomorrow. He doesn't want to think about now, so he throws the dirty clothes in the flasket (he’ll consider later whether he’ll keep that T-shirt, though), takes painkillers (killers, a-ha-ha), takes a shower, and goes to bed. He stays awake as long as it takes him to write a text saying ‘thanks man’ and send it to Derek without specifying exactly, for what. He doesn’t expect a reply, because he never gets one. But Derek certainly kicks Stiles around a lot less recently, and Stiles accepts it as an alternative. They have their shared rituals, tentative, but working. That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for a socially twisted werewolf.

As his conscience slowly drifts away, he has time to idly wonder if Derek's going to come tonight and watch Stiles sleeping, making sure everything is alright, in his totally not creepy manner. Not that Stiles would mind this time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wakes up from screaming. It takes him a heartbeat to process that it was his own scream, still dying on his swollen lips. His limbs are tangled into the sheets, so he flails in panic and falls from his bed.

Dad is having a night shift, so there is no worried 'Stiles?' from the downstairs. But Stiles can deal with it, no problem. After he will catch his breath and get free from these damn sheets.

With the first aware sharp intake his burning lungs make the memories of the dream rush back in, and he freezes amidst the action, with his right arm up in the air.

Stiles has had nightmares before. Like, everybody has nightmares every now and then, right? You can't scream, you can't run away, sometimes you can't even move your finger and just, figuratively and literally speaking, sit and watch. The best thing about those shitty nights is that when you wake up, you can change something, or hope to change something, and make the nightmare unreal. As far away from you as possible. Even a tiniest bit matters - it gives you the feeling that you can control your life, have a good and steady grasp of the reality of this side.

Stiles has had very realistic nightmares before, though he could never remember and recall every part of it. The aftermath lingered for a while, leaving him absent-minded, tired, a bit snappish, and on the verge of he didn’t know himself what, especially if it was a dream about… about Mom, but nothing he couldn’t sort out and push away at the back of his mind to get overshadowed by everyday life and its trifles.

However, that dream is a totally new thing in town, and definitely not the best one, lucid and menacing and unsettling. Stiles manages to get up without falling down on the spot, and redoubles his efforts in disentangling from the sheets and _why the hell he needs so many of them anyway? is he auditioning for the Statue of Liberty at nights in his sleep or what?_

The air in the room is literally stifling, and Stiles opens the window, letting in fresh night breeze. It ruffles up his hair, drying up the sweat on his forehead, cooling his body, and he slumps against the windows-frame, indulging in non-action for one split fraction of time. Then he dashes to his desk and fumbles for a cell phone in the dark, not troubling himself with turning the lights on, because time.

Stiles is quite determined that between the hitting of the connection button and hearing ‘Stiles, what the actual hell?’ several universes were born, populated, and destroyed in some crazy version of star wars.

‘Derek, are you okay?’

‘You’re kidding me. Are _you_ okay? Stiles, it’s three in the morning, and you’d better have a good reason for waking me up.’

Stiles is not so sure now that Derek would consider a bad - even a horrible - dream to be that good reason.

One of the things Stiles likes about Derek (well, there are many things) is that the guy doesn’t treat him like a broken and twisted and haunted human being he is, doesn’t make him feel so _different_ from the rest of the pack, including him, considering him, acknowledging him, even if somewhat begrudgingly, so Stiles doesn’t dwell on things for too long and doesn’t over-think and can move on to new glorious fuck-ups and embarrassing experiences.

Stiles realizes the pause was a bit excessive, and clears his throat.

‘Uh-huh, is Erica okay?’

He can practically feel Derek frowning. His ‘Derek-is-doing-that-thing-with-his-face-again’ senses are tingling.

‘Yes, she’s well. She has healed herself, and is sleeping right now, I suppose. As a sane person. Come tomorrow and check yourself, if you want to.’

A big bad wolf as he may be, Derek still sounds sleepy and tired and whatnot, with his words a bit slurred and his voice husky, and Stiles feels like shit atop having felt like that already. He’s not the only one who’s had a hell of a night. He closes his eyes for a second.

‘Good. That’s good. Maybe, some time? From afar, hiding behind something?’

Now Stiles is assured that Derek is fine - which, according to Derek’s scale of measurement, means ‘currently not being actively killed by werewolf hunters or/and supernatural creatures’, and he opens his mouth to tell him goodnight, when Derek speaks.

Maybe it is Stiles’ voice or his erratic heartbeat or the previous evening, or all of it together, but Stiles hears what he definitely doesn’t expect to.

‘Want me to come over?’ and then he hastens to add, ‘or Scott?’

Stiles nearly drops his phone. He hates to let go of such a rare opportunity to see Derek in his bedroom - _oh my, it sounds wrong_ \- but what he hates even more is to make Derek feel responsible for him. Guilty.

Derek’s alpha-ness sometimes flares up at most unexpected moments: Stiles managed to catch Derek clearly being amused and baffled by himself (if he read his eyebrows correctly, and he’s pretty good at it, he’s had a lot of practice) a couple of times, when Derek was not careful enough to let it slip. Once they were ambushing a fairy, and Stiles had to spent several hours on the cool forest ground, practically groveling in the dirt and dry leaves. Derek was there with him, but a) he had lived in a rusty wind-blown shell of a house for months, he was used to the feeling of dry leaves being up his T-shirt and b) he was literally hot, his werewolf blood be damned. After having listened to Stiles’ grumbling for two hours non-stop ( _couldn’t they ambush her, like, near a coffee shop?_ ), he gave a long-suffering sigh and shed off his sweater, tossing it into Stiles’ direction. Stiles had to virtually shove his fist into his mouth not to comment this. They caught that fairy alright and talked some sense into her (try to argue with _fangs_ ), and when the others joined them, the sweater was on Derek’s back again. The pack gave a few sniffs and exchanged a few glances not-so-subtly, but Derek put on his _I’m the alpha_ here expression, and this was the end of it. But during the debriefing (Stiles’ introduction into their usual routine of hit-and-run dealing with problems) Stiles couldn’t miss the way Derek tugged at the sleeves of his sweater, his nostrils slightly flaring, and that little bemused expression on his face.

Stiles doubts he can control himself at the moment, when the memories of the dream are too bright. Let’s be clear, he won’t close his eyes for the rest of the night. What are they gonna have, a staring contest?

‘Thanks, dude. That’s… wow, really great. No need to do such a sacrifice, though. I’m totally okay. Well, mostly, just need some proper sleep. Sorry for interrupting yours. See ya later.’

Stiles disconnects before Derek has a chance to answer. He creeps back into bed and lies on his back, clenching the phone in his right fist, like it can keep the bad dreams away. Of course it can’t, but the mere knowledge that he can call Derek or Scott or Dad at any moment kinda works for him and does the same.

So, he lies wide awake in the night and just breathes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd. Whoops.

The first thing Stiles does in the morning is thanking God or whoever is in charge that it’s Sunday and he doesn’t have to drag his ass to school and scare the hell out of his teachers and classmates with his looks. Skin paler than usual, dark shadows under blood-shot eyes, a bruise having bloomed on his left cheekbone, hair sticking out into every direction possible. Such a dolly. Minus one certain Jackson to witness this, though. Not bad.

Stiles hurries up, grunting and stretching, to the kitchen to make breakfast even the most captious rabbits would be proud of, as his Dad says. He doesn’t break or chop away anything, so he considers his social duties fulfilled and, grabs a box of Pop-Tarts and crawls back to his bedroom to squirm his way under the blankets and zone out.

The moment he rests his head on the pillow, prompting the box on his stomach, he hears the front door slamming, and braces himself for the new day coming.

‘Son, you home?’

‘Hi, Dad!’

Stiles winces at the sound of his voice. Ouch.

‘Here’s Scott wanting to see you.’

‘Scotty, beam up! Dad, breakfast’s fixed, enjoy your meal!’

Sheriff grunts in response, not seeming to notice that anything is off - yet - and Stiles halfheartedly winks at the ceiling.

Scott’s already here, slowly closing the door behind him and eyeing Stiles with his mouth slightly open.

‘Am I pretty?’ Stiles throws the blanket away with a flair, bats his eyelashes and presents his best maniacal grin to Scott’s judgment.

Scott furrows his eyebrows, clearly not amused, resembling some particular werewolf specimen so eerily, that Stiles can’t but snort at him. It looks like Scott isn’t in the mood for joking and making Stiles’ life less pathetic. Stiles muses on the thought that, practically, this is a brief description of all his relations. He stops grinning.

At first, Scott tries to be not very pushing, but soon he bombards Stiles with questions, so Stiles has no other option but to tell everything about the last evening, doing his best not to embellish the story or go into details at the same time. It’s over now, and the last thing he needs is giving his best buddy an aneurysm. Anyway, Scott gives him a good what-for: Stiles even has the decency to seem conscience-stricken.

Scott’s sitting on Stiles’ bed, while Stiles is sprawled on his office chair, right foot tapping the mindless rhythm into the carpet. The sunlight pouring in through the window washes over Scott’s skin, making it soft and glowing, but Scott seems strangely older at the same time, like in the almost-ancient photograph. Like Stiles is watching over the conversation that will happen years later, being there and here and maybe nowhere in particular at the same time. For a second Stiles feels giddy, and not just because of the sleepless night: they talked like this a hundred times or more, confessing and dreaming and making plans, laughing and fighting and making up. How come he missed the moment when their lives have become so complicated? When did they let all the mess-up in, and why? They should be thinking about passing exams and getting into a good college, about having girlfriends and jobs, not about fifty ways of killing a witch or ninety nine ways of banishing a ghost. _Fuck, do ghosts really exist?_ One moment they are goofing around at Scott’s, their main problem being the upcoming test on Chemistry, and the other they are developing a plan of capturing a rogue omega and making important life-changing decisions and trying to be mature and shit. Sometimes Stiles feels a rush of guilt, like a heavy blow to his stomach, when he thinks what if he had never taken Scott with him into the woods, what if they had never met the Hales… So many ‘what ifs’. Stiles is scrambling for answers, but mostly on his own. He wonders if Scott ever thinks about that, too. 

He feels the hot starting spreading inside the back of his head, and snaps back into reality.

‘Hey, wanna play some video games?’

Scott shines at him, thought that little worried look never fades out of his eyes. To give him credit, Stiles didn’t plan to tell Scott about his dream, at least not spilling everything in one go, and he doesn’t know how the hell he ends up where he is, pacing up and down the room, restless and agitated:

‘… and then that alpha-thing just tore his limbs off, like they were made of paper, and started gobbling them down right in front of him, while he was still somehow alive, and man, it was crazy and sick and gory and so _real_ ,’ Stiles pants heavily, beads of sweat shining on his forehead. ‘I could do nothing, just fucking watch.’

One of the best recipes to chase away the nightmare is telling it to somebody else in broad daylight, making it small and fragile and far-away, but this time it doesn’t work. It just makes the details more vivid, pulsating and vibrating, worming their way under his skin. Not stopping.

Now Scott looks really concerned. He awkwardly pats Stiles on his back and obviously doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Stiles feels amused and, interesting enough, better.

‘Oh, Scotty, wolfy boy, come and give us a bro-hug.’

The awesome thing about years of friendship that you don’t get embarrassed easily anymore, after all the fabulously stupid things you’ve done together. Super. Because Stiles gets into embarrassing situations a lot.

Scott is radiating heat, the fabric of his worn-out T-shirt soft and thin to the touch. Scott is also _real_ , smelling like the woods and Allison and everything Stiles has known for years, but this is another kind of reality. The reality he can live with.

‘Did you tell Derek about… this?’

Stiles shrugs his shoulders.

‘Uh-huh, like his life differs from it that much. Nope, the dude’s already got 99 problems, ain’t gonna give him this one.’

‘Okay, if you think so?’ Scott frowns. ‘But you know, Stiles, you don’t have to deal with it alone. You shouldn’t.’

Scott stays for a while - they discuss studies, Allison, the fuck is happening with the town, Allison, a new movie about Spidey (’It will suck, I tell you. Have you seen the trailer, Scott? Spider-Man catching police cars all over people again? _Seriously?_ ’), and oh, Stiles totally forgot to mention Allison. Who is the reason why Scott doesn’t stay for dinner, by the way. He says that he will stay with Stiles and even takes his phone to dial Allison and call the date off, but Stiles practically shoos him away.

So, Stiles drags through the rest of the day doing laundry, studying, chatting with Dad, and watching TV shows. He has downloaded practically every series about the supernatural creatures and powers ever existing, though he is not sure how to regard them - only as a means of entertainment, or as somewhat faulty, yet still a guide to survival as well, so he settles for both.

No texts or calls from Derek or the pack so far.

As the shadows creep over the window-sill, filling the room and getting thicker and thicker, he falls asleep with the laptop on his stomach and the cell phone on his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

He has a nightmare again. Now it’s about his Dad.

Stiles wakes up with his heart beating heavily against the ribs - almost hurting - and lungs straining for air. His mind feels floaty and acutely conscious of his body at the same time. It’s working overdrive just not to _focus_.

‘What the actual fuck,’ he mumbles into the pillow and turns on his back, hitting his right elbow on something hard during the stunt. Oh, the laptop. Just, you know, perfect. Lots of supernatural stuff running around out there and trying to get at him and kill him, but here he is, doing fine on his own.

He takes a breath with his mouth, salty and metal taste against his tongue, as if he bit the inside of his cheek in his sleep.

Stiles sits up and gropes for the celly. The screen says there are no incoming calls or texts and it’s three in the morning. Stiles has a flashback, but now he’s smarter than that, calling Derek and being needy and suppressedly hysterical all over him. He’s just gonna check up on Dad if he’s okay.

Just a second, though. He drags his palm across the face, as if wiping the memories of the dream away, and it is only now when he discovers in a weary surprise that his cheeks are wet.

___

Stiles doesn’t want to go to school.

Instead, he follows Dad around the house, as a little duckling follows its Big Momma Duck, the whole morning, which first quite amuses Sheriff Stilinski, then worries him, and then, when he opens the door of the bathroom after using it and finds Stiles sitting expectantly with his legs crossed in front of it, he is finally alarmed and even a bit scared.

He recalls the past, when Stiles used to follow him like this for several weeks in a row, silently bursting into tears every time he disappeared out of the line of his sight. The weeks after Mom’s death.

In the end, they settle in the kitchen, with Stiles fiddling with the bowl of cereal, and his father sighing over the plate of healthy and ‘m-m-m yummy’ (c) salad.

‘Son?’ the Sheriff puts aside the fork and slightly leans forward.

‘Yes, Dad?’ Stiles mumbles back, having given him a brief glance.

‘Why are you not at school?’

Stiles doesn’t even take time to blink.

‘Got no classes today. They go on an excursion to the uni I’ve already checked out before. More milk?’

‘Why do all the important conversations happen in kitchens?’ Sheriff muses, taking in Stiles’s dark circles under the eyes. So one can have an immediate access to food which serves simultaneously as a source of consolation and celebration?

He realizes that he hasn’t had a proper conversation with his son for a long time already, that with his demanding job and Stiles’s demanding studies (not forgetting about his more demanding friends, of course). Suddenly he feels very old.

‘Son, are you okay?’

‘Yeah, why asking?’

The way Stiles shrugs his shoulders, antsy and crooked, tells him enough.

‘Had bad night?’ he asks softly.

Stiles abruptly nods.

A secret it might be for others, but Sheriff knows that Stiles can be excruciatingly shut-mouthed if he sets his mind on it. Throughout the years of work Sheriff Stilinski has learned that actions speak louder than words; and anyway, what can you say in that case? Nothing better than a simple ‘Come here.’

They hug, holding each other tight, till their tea gets completely cold.

\---

Dad says he has several cases to work on, dropping quite a heavy hint that Stiles can also spend the time in a useful way, like somewhere with lessons and knowledge and a library. Stiles grumbles, but packs his rucksack full with copybooks and textbooks and sets off for school.

He leaves his Baby Blue (the new name for his Jeep, thanks, ‘Breaking Bad’) in the parking lot and heads for the labs, where his next class is. He meets several students on the way. They don’t seem clearly appalled by his looks (he tried to diminish the visible damage done to his upper-est part also known as ‘face’ as best as he could, checking out a couple of beauty blogs and not forgetting to delete the browser history after) which will go as ‘good’ on his list.

Still, he spends the break near his locker, pretending to be sorting out his papers and whatnot (maybe, he will really do it some time), while the stream of students rushes past him. When the bell rings, he enters the classroom with the others and creeps for the last seats.

And realizes he completely forgot about one more thing. Lil’ pretty thing, standing right in front of him with her hands on hips.

‘Hello, Lydia,’ Stiles attempts a welcome smile. He thinks he manages to pull it off. Mostly.

‘The hell, Stiles? We have a shared project, remember? Which was due to today. So where have you been?’

Lydia is pissed. Stiles did it. She is going to skin him and make a lovely handbag out of him. She has a point, and while his brain scrambles for appropriate words, the teacher comes in, and everything Stiles has a time to do is mouth at her guiltily ‘Talk to you later, okay?’. He notices Scott quizzically looking at him and gives him a shrug.

She humphs indignantly and sashays away to her desk. Stiles will never get stop wondering how she does that, moving smooth and confident and bumpless, will all these desks and bags scattered all over the floor. Incredible.

By the end of the school day Stiles is sure that Lydia, no matter how he was blinded by the crush on her before, is gorgeous and beautiful and smart a bit terrifying anyway (he sees a clear crush-pattern here). She helped him with the project in time enough that he could present it without looking totally dumb in front of the whole class (‘I couldn’t let you fail it, you would have ruined my work and image as well’), and after the classes were over she dragged him to the lacrosse team changing room and did something miraculous to his face using the sources of her ‘vanity bag’ (‘People know I know you, so I can’t let you go around in a state like this. What will they think about my taste in people?’). She clearly wasn’t satisfied with his ‘Er, just didn’t get enough sleep in these two days’, but she let it go for a while.

A perfect girl, seriously. Sometimes he feels sorry that they’ve become sorta study buddies (though the acknowledgment that he can keep up with her is very flattering, indeed) because it somehow grounded his feelings. Made them real and manageable. Having a crush on her before was safe. Deep down he knew that she would never consider him seriously, but that’s what all young love is about. Throwing yourself in at the deep end and hope that you’ll land in one piece. You have books and films and blogs on how to get the girl of your dreams. Now he is already at his deepest, and he has know idea what to do next. How the hell are you supposed to get the guy of your nightmares? Damn it.

While on his way to the parking lot he texts Scott if and, in case of 'yes', when he's going to come over to Derek's place. Only after putting the celly back into his pocket and glancing up Stiles notices a man leaning on the hood of his Jeep with his back to him. By the posture and overall expression of sulkiness spreading in waves from the figure Stiles makes the only possible and, therefore, correct guess about the identity of the aforementioned person.

Oh _shit_.

Stiles doesn't know why, but he has a sudden urge to back off slowly, 'Don't turn your back to dangerous animals' flashing red in his mind.

'Don't,' says the man abruptly and faces Stiles.

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. Damn werewolf senses.

'Oh hi, Derek.' He really hopes it doesn't sound that squeaky. 'What are you doing here?' He approaches the car, trying to make it no so evident that he calculates the possibility of just jumping into it and driving away as fast as possible. Sometimes Derek reminds Stiles of a roller-coaster - when you think of it, you get all excited and giddy at the thought of a ride, but when you actually see it, you regret _everything_.

Derek's started doing that thing again with his face, but suddenly he slightly bends over Stiles, his nostrils flaring.

Wow, he looks _confused_.

Stiles in panic mentally runs through his morning routine list: take a shower - check, brush teeth - check, clean underwear - check, clean t-shirt and socks - check, not stopping for a session of rolling in the mud on the way to school - check.

'What? Something's wrong?' Stiles tugs on the collar of his plaid shirt and smells it.

Derek presses his lips tight, understanding, that his little impromptu examination hasn't escaped Stiles' attention.

'You smell like Lydia.'

Stiles has no idea whether he should/must explain this to Derek. If he does it, he will have to mention the nightmares, and that's not the thing he would like to share with the class. He relies on his perfect improvisational communicative skills and opens his mouth to demonstrate them, when he registers Derek's face changing again.

The only comparison which comes to his mind is the wolf who's suddenly got sprayed into the muzzle by Chanel No. 5.

'And like... tons of make-up?'

Well, the hell he's going to explain _that_.

Stiles is really tired, he wants to fall facedown on any horizontal surface and sleep for twenty hours in a row, but he finds himself on the verge of laughing. _This situation._ He coughs, trying to stifle the giggling bubbling up in his throat:

'Derek, so why are you here? Fairies? Harpies? Ogres? Peter is back in town?'

Derek’s face closes off, and Stiles winces internally.

_Good, Stiles, way to go._

Derek rolls his shoulders and gives Stiles a sharp look (Stiles isn’t innerly laughing anymore), as if contemplating something. Maybe, finally ripping Stiles’s throat out with his teeth.

'It's nothing. Go home and have some sleep, Stiles.’

He leaves Stiles racking his brains over what has just happened.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Hope you'll enjoy it!

Stiles gets a text from Scott telling him that he isn’t planning to visit Derek & Co. because there is no current emergency threatening to screw their heads off, but if Stiles wanted to, he could keep him company, but not today - he has plans with Allison, why asking, btw? Stiles feels too used up to have energy for texting back, so he saves it for later.

In the evening, he considers going to the lacrosse training though and decides that it will buck him up. Instead, he almost falls asleep sitting on the bench, collecting dust (as usual) and when the Coach (clearly pissed by the absence of Scott, thank you very much) kicks him out on the field, Stiles hinders the game, spectacularly missing most of the shots and getting his right arm nearly broken.

He thinks that this day couldn’t get any worse.

This is true, until comes the night.

This time, the nightmare is about Scott.

\---

Stiles wants to call Scott. At the same time, he doesn’t want to worry him, because he knows that Scott will dart off (without some essential items of clothing on him, probably) the very second he hears Stiles’ frantic heartbeat (which can be heard on the other side of the ocean, certainly) through the line.

Stiles’ body got the minimum rest, which is still something, unlike his mind, though it’s almost unnoticeable, with adrenalin still flooding his blood and with his muscles a bit sore. He takes his time getting his breath quiet and even, feeling the tide of nausea reluctantly backing away. Stiles trudges to the bathroom and gets into the shower, turning the water almost to the freezing cold. His thoughts tossing in a haze, Stiles guesses if there’s genuinely something wrong - he doesn’t welcome the idea that something’s wrong with him, but it’s here, pulsing in the back of his head, unsettling and… _familiar._

He gets out and starts rummaging about medicine cabinet, searching for the pills to kill the rising headache.

He tries to remember if he has any hypnotics.

\--- 

Scott catches him right in front of the classroom and pulls him along. Stiles nearly yelps at the sight of him, because he’s really happy to see him safe and sound, not being slayed with a sword by the bunch of werewolf hunters and mangling him in a butcher-like manner. Good. Scott keeps glancing back at him, not loosening the grasp. Stiles is too tired to protest, though he gives it a try as a matter of form.

‘Scott, the hell?’

They are in the boys’ changing room. Stiles wrinkles his nose upon the choice of place. Is it some kind of the Colosseum of their School Rome, the place where the destinies are swayed and history is made and some creepy stuff is performed?

Ugh.

Stiles pulls himself together and focuses on what Scott is saying.

‘… seriously ill? Want me to talk to my Mom? She can examine you or ask-’

See, his I-just-came-out-of-the-basement-where-I-spent-three-weeks looks did him good, saving him from the telling-off he expected. Or maybe, Scott waits for a good moment, plotting an ambush with Derek as a back-up. Stiles gets distracted for a second by an image of Derek in bushes. What?

‘Hey, boy, brake, I got this,’ Stiles raises his hands in a calming gesture. He notices that they tremble a little, and quickly puts them down. ‘Anyway. I may look like shit, but still like some fabulous shit, uh-huh. I’m dealing with this already.’

Scott looks not very convinced. Since lying to your best friend is a) fuckery by default b) double-fuckery as the best friend is a werewolf with lie detector-like super-senses, Stiles settles for a half-truth, half-lie, telling him that he’s caught a cold or something like this.

‘Does Derek know?’

Stiles can’t help rolling his eyes. Scott will never admit it, but he has gradually come to rely on Derek in any situation when he can’t decide what to do himself. He does what he believes is right to his own senses, but still he learns about Derek’s thoughts about it, one way or another, to act accordingly or conversely just on purpose.

‘And how do you expect me to break the horrible news to him? ‘Derek, help, I’m coughing, come and save me you Grumpy Prince’? Scott, I told you I can deal with it.’

Stiles hates the phrase ‘It’s gonna be alright’ since the hospitals where he spent, as it sometimes seems to him, most part of his childhood. Worst part. It’s bitter, dusty, and not true.

Scott frowns, but doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t let Stiles go back to the classes, either.

So they talk till the end of the class, sitting side by side, their shoulders brushing, and Stiles really does his best to look better than he feels.

 

\---

By the end of the school day Stiles has developed such a nasty headache gnawing at his temples that he can’t keep himself from asking Scott to talk to his Mom and inquire if she can get him some sleeping pills, and he is also not averse to her famous chocolate chip cookies, if anybody is interested in that kind of information.

Stiles leaves the main building of the school with a good share of apprehension, recalling the previous day. Everything seems clear of Derek and his crazy puppies, so Stiles literally launches his weary body towards his Jeep, dreaming about a shower and his bed and blissful nothingness.

‘Not so fast, Dorothy, the defeater of wicked witches,’ Stiles hears as being suddenly jerked out of the motion by someone’s strong hand. He weakly yelps and stumbles back, pressing himself against _a woman’s body wait what._

Stiles certainly believes in karma now.

A maniacal laugh is being an answer. He wriggles out of her clasp and nearly lands on his ass, but she manages to catch him in the last second and helps him up. Erica is her usual new-self: bright, toxic, and menacing. She grins at him, flashing white teeth, and shakes her head in a mock concern:

‘Baby boy, you look terrible. Want me to give you a waking kiss?’ Erica smacks her blood-red lips and makes a step forward towards Stiles. Stilinski groans in response. He hasn’t decided yet what is worse - the angry Erica or the playful Erica, because they’re both intimidating and have consequences. He thinks he glimpses actual worry in her eyes.

‘Erica, cut it out.’

Stiles looks up at the sky and seriously contemplates the idea of crawling away.

‘Oh hi, Derek.’

Derek turns out to be standing right behind Stiles, with his arms crossed and self being clearly not amused. His face does that Spock-y thing, trying to be indecipherable and shit, and the guy can be rather good at it, Stiles admits it, but he can’t understand why it would be so hard for Derek to… let’s say, not smile, that would be creepy and unnerving (and hot at the same time, okay) as fuck but, at least, not look as if he got something stuck in his teeth, jaw clenched and eyes fixed on something in the distance. Well. He can understand, actually, but it’s sad and raw and he doesn’t want to think about it now.

Erica rolls her eyes and sighs a bit exasperatedly, but shuts up.

Stiles notices a few inquisitive glances cast at their direction from other students, and tries to imagine how they look like. Presumably, like they are going to the Halloween party - as a zombie, a vampire, and a serial killer. Perfect. Or those two may serve (in a rude and much-leathered fashion) for that couple from 50 Shades of Gray, Derek being that young and hot tycoon with the dark past and even darker secrets (oh my god, the description disturbingly suits him _so much_ ), Erica - his passion, an innocent girl who turned out to be not that innocent after all, and Stiles - well, Stiles as a treat for their orgy, and he’s never ever going to watch women’s talk shows again even if he’s bored to death, ugh.

Stiles wants to go home so badly, that he acutely regrets not having a sprig of wolfsbane with him on a constant basis, so he can _whip those fucking werewolves out_ of the parking lot and, at least for some time, from his life with it. Derek and whips in one sentence seem quite alarming, and he shoos the thought away.

He emerges from his mind black-out to the pair of them looking at him in rather an odd way. He notices them exchange glances as if communicating silently and puts his hands up in the air in desperation:

‘Listen up, you come here, bring some bad news, scare the shit out of… _people_ , and all of that while mostly just standing there. Dudes, that’s kinky. You know, people have _a life_ , and don’t you snort at that, mister!’ He glares at Derek, but doesn’t push his luck and lets his eyes promptly dart away.

‘Wow, take it easy, boy!’ Erica laughs, her eyes glimmering with wicked amusement. ‘Just wanted to say… thank you, you are not that useless for a human.’

Stiles thinks he hears a rumble from Derek at that, but he is not sure whether it is that or merely blood roaring in his ears, so he discards it as highly improbable. Derek, growling at the member of his pack _because of Stiles._ Huh.

‘Well, next time I won’t be such in a hurry, promise. And surely I won’t let my highly mortal and fragile self delay you from… doing your important stuff. Like, running in the woods, lurking, stalking people, darning torn t-shirts - yes, I’m talking about you, Captain Kirk-’

Out of the corner of his eye Stiles catches of glimpse of Derek shuffling his feet, just _that_ , and Stiles, though it’s not always that noticeable, maybe, is certainly not suicidal.

‘Okay, okay, I shut up, though I still don’t understand why you are here, and I have a feeling that I’ve asked this question already before, so-’

‘Oh really,’ Erica furrows her brow and looks pointedly at Derek, and by the way the glimmer in her eyes turns into hungry interest, Stiles can determine that it’s just the right time for him to make away. On top of that, an _audible_ rumble escapes Derek’s throat, and with that Stiles jumps onto the front seat of his car and slams the door shut. Enough of this high school romantic comedy.

‘See you later. Or maybe, not: you will see me, and I won’t, because this is usually how it happens with you guys. Anyway,’ he kicks the gear into life and he’s off, Erica’s laugh and Derek’s silence echoing in his ears.

\---

Stiles slumps onto his bed and groans, his body practically screaming and thoughts dull, with the pain still throbbing at his temples. He has to cook dinner for his Dad, do dishes and laundry, complete several school projects, and how does he even have any free time for other stuff? How is he supposed to have free time for other stuff, like parties and girls?

‘Oh yeah, Stilinski, that wouldn’t be a problem, taking into account the number of invitations to parties and girls’ panties,’ he humphs and stretches, wiggling his toes and relishing in silence, so different and, for now, pleasant from high school hubbub. He plans on doing many things, but calling Scott will be in the first place. He hopes Scott’s mom will be able to help him, but a minute later the apologizing voice in his celly tells him that ‘sorry, Stiles, there has to be an official prescription for sleeping pills, they watch medicine pretty closely nowadays’.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Oh, marvelous. Now his mom thinks Stiles is a junky?

Scott makes him promise that if it gets worse, he will call Melissa and make an appointment with a doctor. Stiles is not enthusiastic about the whole idea, but Scott knows his ways, pulling a fully-qualified puppy mode, and Stiles does just that.

He is in the process of wrenching the t-shirt over his head when he hears the buzz of the incoming text. Stiles freezes for a few moments, trying to mind-read the text and guess if it is some emergency and whether he will have to run at a breakneck in no time to kick asses, and decides not to humor prospective enemies by half-naked self. So he pulls the t-shirt back down and reaches for the phone.

_So, Derek comes to see you every day now to pick you up after kindergarten?_

Stiles lets out a full moan. This is his life now, getting bullied by girls and shit. But he has a reputation of a pain in the ass for a reason, right? And how has she got his phone number?

_oh hi, Erica. got bored? hair curled, lipstick daubed, claws sharpened, nothing else to do?_

Stiles peers out of the window but notices nothing - nobody - suspicious. Though he’s definitely not the one to underestimate the over 80 level of ‘lurking in the places you don’t even know exist’ skill.

_Soaking in the tub. Why asking, wanna join?_

Stiles snorts. He hopes he doesn’t blush at the meantime.

_woman, that’s your version of smooth seduction? take a course._

The phone buzzes in five seconds.

_So that’s what Derek’s been giving you? A course in smooth seduction?_

_ask him yourself and stop wasting my time. or r u jealous?_

The answer comes in a second.

_I would ask him, if he were at the loft. Wonder where he is right now._

Stiles can practically see her grinning at that.

He double-checks the window, glaring at the street just in case.

_keep wondering. stiles out._

He deletes the next text from Erica without reading it, having a vague idea of what she might have written.

It’s late in the night, Stiles got ready for bed (not quite remembering, how) and sits on the mattress with hands on his knees slightly twitching, trying to calm the fuck down and focus on something else. Should he give Lydia flowers for saving his ass in the class earlier? Should any act of him being saved by other people be rewarded with flowers? Should he give flowers to Derek? If he does, how long will it take him, Stiles, to get to the border with Canada if it goes wrong? What do you give to a werewolf as a present? Does smelling as their favorite food count? What is Derek’s favorite food? At the point where he starts calculating how he can make himself smell like pasta, Stiles has to stop this train of thought by his will alone. Acting on impulse, he stomps to the window and closes it shut without looking outside.

‘The window’s on the latch, for nobody-in-particular’s information,’ he announces loudly and drags himself back.

After mindless looking at the ceiling for, as it seems, an eternity, he finally blacks out, the darkness not blissful at all.


End file.
